hearts so lost as mine
by lilabut
Summary: Hope is fading with each tick of the clock, and after years of waiting, he fears there is not enough time left.
1. part one

**Notes**: I've been writing this story for weeks now, but it turned out a lot harderto write than I originally thought. It was meant to be a one shot, but then it turned into this multi-chapter story. I will post weekly, and am almost finished writing it, so no worries.

I want to thank my pre-readers on Tumblr, because they really encouraged me to even continue writing this. The title is taken from the poem _Eloisa to Abelard_ by Alexander Pope, and the song lyrics are taken from the song _This Woman's Work_ by Greg Laswell.

* * *

**The story begins with an AU of episode 2x05.**

* * *

**one.**

_I should be crying but I just can't let it show_

A sharp knock on his door ripping him out of a restless sleep.

His bare feet shuffling across the cold floor.

Eyes burning and prickling as the light is switched on.

Mr Carson pulling merely the coat of his uniform from the hanger by the door, pushing it into his arms.

_He fell. Captain Crawley. He fell._

Wide awake as he rushes the car down the gravel path.

Doctor Clarkson's shocked expression as he lets him in the back of the car.

Shivering in the cold night air, the thin cotton of his pyjamas helpless against it.

He falls back into his bed in the early hours of dawn, shock and disbelief and a confusing sense of grief fallen upon him, as sleep does not come.

**.**

**.**

The funeral feels less like a last farewell to a lost cousin, than to an entire family, an heir, a future.

When his eyes fall upon Lady Mary, standing dutifully and upright next to Richard Carlisle, but clutching her youngest sister's arm, Tom remembers that he never really disliked her. He clearly remembers the terrified look in her cool eyes that night, so many years ago, when Sybil's blood had still stained his uniform.

She is crumbling right now, barely holding on.

Looking away, feeling as if she should at least be allowed to break apart in privacy, his eyes fall upon Sybil. A strong hold on her sister, her own face is sickened with grief and uncertainty. For a splint second, he believes to see fear flash across her eyes, before her handkerchief steals away his chance to properly see.

**.**

**.**

Edmund Crawley is married, has two young sons, and is a solicitor like Matthew has been. The day he first visits Downton upon knowing his future as heir to the estate and fortune, the mood within the old and battered walls is thick with unease.

Tom had not been working here after the death of the previous heir, but Anna tells him of those awkward first weeks, always treading on eggshells as Matthew Crawley had taken over the dead cousin's role in the family.

He sits down in the servant's hall by himself, waiting for everyone else to come downstairs from welcoming the next man in a seemingly cursed chain. Mrs Patmore is mumbling to herself in the kitchen, and from across his newspaper, he can see Daisy peeking up the stairs.

"It's not worth looking," he calls out to her, and she fringes a little upon the sound of his voice. Poor girl, he thinks, shaking his head to himself.

"What's he like?"

"Didn't say one proper word on the way up here. Was complaining about the train to his wife."

The familiar creaking of the weathered staircase and hushed voices soon announce the arrival of several pairs of busy feet, all shuffling into the servant's hall, straying all about the place. Voices mix to such a degree, that barely a single one is understandable. But as he listens carefully, he can hear O'Brien's harsh (but truthful) words about the man that has such big shoes to fill – _looked like a fly, was walking around as if he already owns the place, talked as if he had every right to be here, did you see the old lady's face? Lady Mary looked as if she wanted to tear them all apart right there_.

"Why ever is he not fighting?" Daisy asks quietly, promptly getting an answer.

"Invalided out two years ago."

"What do you think, Mr Branson?" someone asks, and Tom puts down the paper, shrugging.

"Only thing he said was complaining about the train. To his wife."

"There you have it," Miss O'Brien states with venom in her voice, making her way towards the courtyard with quick steps.

Staring blankly at the newspaper on the table, Tom knows he would never admit to anyone, especially not O'Brien, that he pities the man who has cast him a glare of disapproval this afternoon at the train station. Not a single soul in this house welcomes him here, everyone dizzy with grief, fear or anger, and yet he has to fill the shoes of someone he has never met.

There is no way for him to make things right, to take a right step on a path that was never meant to be his.

**.**

**.**

"He is a bit... impolite. But I suppose... it must have been a big change for him. I remember when Matthew first..." Sybil's voice drifts off into silence, and when Tom looks at her, she is fidgeting with the hem of her apron.

"But he learned it all, didn't he?"

She looks up, irritated and nervous, as she seems to be all the time now. Whenever he sees her these days, her hands are restless, her eyebrows pulled together, shadows forming underneath her eyes, and she seems constantly on watch, carefully planning each and every step as if a greater power is watching.

"He did," she agrees quietly, "But he was Matthew. It was not hard at all to like him."

**.**

**.**

Life goes on. One way or the other. Sun rises and sets, clouds wander across the sky and eventually, everyone has to come to terms with the new family members, with the stranger who claims ownership of things each and every one of the servants – from Mr Carson to Daisy – has more knowledge and a better understanding of.

**.**

**.**

Tom has forgotten the man's name the moment Sybil first utters it, banned it into the dark corner of his memory where he keeps knowledge he does not dare to allow to take shape.

It has been going on for weeks now, and with the end of the war drawing nearer, whispers among the house have gotten louder. Whispers that Lady Sybil has a suitor among the patients.

Once, he asks her about it, after hearing O'Brien hissing something about _unprofessional behaviour_ during one of the rare dinners he spends in the servant's hall. The blush on Sybil's cheeks is more of an answer than the few words she finds to describe the situation.

That afternoon, he questions her no further, feeling her slip away, like a seam ripping achingly slow, thread by thread, one painful pull after the other, and he starts piling his books neatly on the small table in his cottage. Ready for any choice that might be made.

**.**

**.**

He knows she is avoiding him. Avoiding everything. Mr Carson's words from that fateful night echo in Tom's memory. _Fallen_. Fallen.

It seems morbidly true, that now everything seems to fall apart and crumble into dust underneath everyone's touch, beneath everyone's feet. Solid stone turning into shifting sands.

Hope is fading with each tick of the clock, and after years of waiting, he fears there is not enough time left.

**.**

**.**

The rush of leafs from outside as she opens the door mingle with the clicking of her heels. When he looks up, orange autumn dusk illuminates the garage, and he knows what has happened before she says it out loud, with an unsure and trembling voice.

The air is chilly, and Sybil wraps her gloved arms around herself, eyeing the floor shyly.

"He proposed."

He drops the greasy cloth onto the hood of the Renault, taking a few deliberate steps forward, but keeping much more of a distance between them than usual. No more approaching. No more crumbling of the divide that keeps them apart. He is crouched behind it now, like a brick wall that stares him blankly in the face.

"And why are you telling me that?"

She looks up, aware of the anger and despair in his eyes no matter how hard he tries to conceal them. _Dignity_, that is what comes into his mind first, before everything else. Years he has waited, and if she refuses him now, all he has left is to accept it with dignity.

"Because I think you deserve to know."

"Have you given him an answer, then?"

Looking down again, Sybil slurs her feet across the dusty ground, drawing a small circle.

"He only asked me today. I told him I'd think about it."

"Well, what do you think?"

The next time she looks up, her eyes are filled with unshed tears, tears he knows she will not let run down her pale cheeks. Not in front of him, anyway. Or anyone else for that matter. No matter how much she has grown over the years, no matter how far away from him this proposal has pulled her, it is still Sybil, Sybil's crystal-clear eyes that he looks at. Strong. Fiery. Proud.

She rushes out of the garage and into the early autumn glow without one more word spoken, leaving him behind once more in silence and uncertainty, only in the company of the sharp ache thrumming against his heart like the melody of a hopeless song.


	2. part two

Earlier update than planned, but I probably won't have time tomorrow, and I didn't want to keep you waiting. Thank you so much to everyone for the kind reviews so far.

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**two.**

_I should be hoping but I can't stop thinking_

"Mr Branson, are you quite well?"

"Of course."

"Is everything all right, Mr Branson?"

"Yes, Mr Carson."

"Branson, you look a bit ill, are you feeling well?"

"I'm perfectly fine, your Ladyship."

"Is anything the matter, Mr Branson?"

"Nothing at all."

"Mr Branson-"

"I'm fine!"

**.**

**.**

Tom lingers around the staircase in the dim light, casting glances down each end of the corridor. He really should be getting back to his cottage to bring the car around, but something more urgent is keeping him here.

He almost jumps in front of Miss O'Brien as she comes hurrying down the stairs, and the look she gives him makes him feel threatened for his relatively peaceful relationship with her.

"What are you standing around here for?"

"Have you seen Anna?"

He regrets the question the second it passes his lips and sees the slight raise of Miss O'Brien's eyebrows. That should be sufficient for at least a week of speculation.

"No, I haven't. As I recall, that is not my job."

"Of course, not," he answers quickly, nodding with a polite smile that is, naturally, not returned.

After Daisy almost runs him over with a large tray in her hands, he decides that tomorrow might be another chance, and that one more day could do no worse. Just as he turns around to make his way out the back door, he hears quick steps on the stairs.

"Anna, could I talk to you for a minute?" he calls through the corridor as he sees Anna's bright hair in the relative darkness of the house. She looks around and meets his eyes.

"Of course."

With quick steps she is standing in front of him, a red dress draped over her arm. Tom gulps, all of a sudden very nervous. He has never been good at this, but his bad conscious has already taken the few hours of sleep from him that his broken heart and trashed dignity spare him.

"Only...," he begins, looking down at his hands, fingers intertwined, "I wanted to apologize. I was out of line yesterday."

Anna smiles kindly up at him, eyebrows quivering for a moment as she apparently carefully contemplates her words.

"Don't worry, Mr Branson. No harm done," she assures him, taking a heavy burden off his chest, "But, if you ever wish to talk about something, things you don't wish to discuss with Mr Carson or Mrs Hughes-"

Her words only add to the shame and pain that threaten to burst out of him like flames. Somehow, he has always been sure that Anna _knew,_ or at least suspected. Too caring for her own good, too perceptive of everyone else's pain and heartbreak.

"Thank you, Anna. But I doubt there'll be much need to discuss anything in the foreseeable future."

The compassionate smile that has accompanied her offer faints into reluctant acceptance as she slowly nods.

**.**

**.**

The piece of paper with names of newspapers in Dublin lies before him like an obituary. All excitement he might have felt at the prospect once now seems rather dull, as if the price for it was too high to pay.

**.**

**.**

She comes into the garage much later than usual, and when he sees the quiet fear in her eyes, he knows she has made her choice.

In his mind, he thinks if he could make it to Dublin by Wednesday afternoon.

**.**

**.**

"This is my decision. You have to let me go," she says so very quietly, it is almost a whisper, and he tells himself that it is because her voice knows the lie and fraud it is forced to give life to, "I don't love you. Not the way you love me."

Maybe this is true. The pain he feels at this final rejection seems proof that he loves her more than she ever loved him, or ever could. But then, a contradiction to every word she has just uttered in the darkness of the garage, Sybil reaches out her hand, gently rests her palm again his cheek.

The softness of the silk that envelops her hand frustrates him. Not even in these final moments, not even in the minutes he knows will be goodbye can there be no barrier between them. Still, he leans into her touch, a final rebellion of hers, maybe. Or an act of kindness. Compassion. Guilt. He chooses to cherish it, the soft, caring warmth of her palm, the gentle brush of he thumb.

"You cannot keep wandering around here because of me, because of something we will never have. There is no place in this world for us."

Her last words really are a whisper, and he longs so much to wrap her up in his arms, if only this once. But she denies him even that when she slowly drops her hand.

"You have a life to live, without me. Find someone else who you can love as much as you claim to love me. Someone who deserves it. Someone who loves you equally with all their heart," she says calmly, a sad smile crossing her beautiful face.

Tom only nods, lost for words now that is has all come to an end.

"I ought to go back, it's very late," Sybil mutters, suddenly unable to look him in the eyes. He understands, in an odd way. However much might be true about her words, she must know she broke his heart, and to look him into the eyes now, that is an act of bravery he does not expect from anyone.

She is halfway out of the garage by the time he finds his voice again.

"I hope he treats you well," he says with a much cooler voice than intended. He means what he says, every words of it. There is no sarcasm or irony, not a hint, but somehow his broken heart make him wish there were. "I hope you'll be happy."

She smiles softly, nodding.

"I hope you'll be happy, too."

Then she disappears into the night once again, for the final time.

**.**

**.**

The last thing to do is fold his uniform neatly, one last time.


	3. part three

**three**

_All the things I should've given but I didn't_

He is not granted a moment sleep that night, sitting on the edge of his bed in the darkness of his cottage.

His two old and battered suitcases stand by the door, packed and ready as they have been for weeks now, his few clothes and belongings neatly folded and secured.

Long before he knows the other servants will wake, he shuts the door to the cottage behind him, leaves his suitcases by the side of the garage doors, and slowly makes his way up the path to the main house, heart heavy with goodbye.

**.**

**.**

"Mr Branson!"

His determined steps slow down halfway through the courtyard, and the clinging of keys makes it unnecessary to turn around to confirm who it is.

"Do you have a minute?" Mrs Hughes asks as she walks up to him, and he nods shortly.

"Mr Carson has just told me. This is very sudden."

He has hoped to leave as quietly and with as few questions as possible. Deep down, he already regrets not saying goodbye to his former colleagues, to people he has grown to respect over the last years, people who are the closest thing to friends that he can name. But saying goodbye means being asked questions, and that means lying, and he is not ready for that. Not yet.

So, he will disappear quietly.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs Hughes. But I suppose it is time for me to go back home, and I have some prospects there."

Mrs Hughes nods, but he can see in her watchful eyes that something else is lingering there. Not quite curiosity, but a certain need for confirmation.

"Of course it would have been easier on us if you had given us some time to find a replacement. But still, I hope Mr Carson made clear that you shall receive a good reference. Other than certain... events, you were very valued here."

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

There is a moment of silence, the sun still not quite risen, everything in a dim, almost artificial light.

"I better get going. I still need to fetch Mr Pratt," he says, finally unable to maintain the tense silence, and he is already turning to leave, when he hears her voice again.

"I knew it would end this way."

Swallowing hardly, he turns around again.

"Beg pardon?"

"I told you this would happen. Years ago," she says quietly, her voice stern but compassionate, the expression on her face much softer than he expected. The kindness that he sees in her eyes makes him fear another swell of pity he does not want, but it never comes. "I told you you'd end up with no job. And from the sight of you and all this sudden urgency, I suppose your heart is not nearly as whole as it deserves to be."

The memories hit him like the blow of cold wind on a stormy day in winter. Memories of a sunny day when, for only a few moments, everything seemed hopeful and right. Moments filled with joy and memories of lace-covered fingers intertwined with his own, the image of the shy expression on her beautiful face forever engraved into his mind.

Mrs Hughes has known back then, has probably known about it all these years, maybe even before he truly did. Still, in this moment, as he prepares to leave now that her prophecy has come true, he does not dare to admit it any more than he has back then, when the sun was burning through the thick fabric of his uniform.

"What do you mean?" His words echo in both their memories, and the hint of a sad smile flutters across Mrs Hughes lips.

"I wish you the very best for the future, Mr Branson. And I trust it is safe to say that all of us do."

"I appreciate that. And wish the same for everyone here."

They both nod in silent agreement, and when he makes his way out of the courtyard, the silence tells him she is watching him leave, the heavy weight of knowledge on her mind.

**.**

**.**

She barely eats anything that morning, merely sipping at her tea although it is burning her lips. The prickling pain throbs all the way down her throat, but the numbness that seems to have taken over every other sensation in her prevents her from caring.

"Only this one letter, Milord," Carson says with his calm voice, handing over a single envelope to her father, "And I have to inform you that Mr Branson has handed in his notice early this morning."

Her hand freezes mid-air, the weight of the teacup causing her fingers to quiver after only a few seconds. Staring blankly down at the crisp, white table cloth, she forces herself to breathe calmly..

"Why, all of a sudden?" her father asks rather harshly. She swallows, fearing the pair of eyes that is without a doubt analysing every flicker of emotion on her face. Setting down the tea cup carefully, she closes her eyes for a second longer than a blink. A moment of privacy. Of grief. Gone quicker than it has come.

"He says he has been wanting to return to Ireland for quite some time," Carson explains, retreating from the table.

"He did seem rather absent lately," her father continues, voice calmer now, "It's a shame, really, I have to admit. He was a reliable driver."

Her father's words irritate her, and for a moment memories rush through her mind of times her father had threatened to dismiss the _reliable driver_ without a moment of hesitation, of times she had to stand up and... She does not dare travel further down this road, and instead takes another sip of her tea.

She can feel Mary's gaze as if it was heat radiating from gleaming coal.

"Indeed, Milord."

**.**

**.**

"Anna?" Sybil calls down the hallway, taking the last two steps up the stairs in a rush.

Anna stops and turns, a crisp sheet pressed against her stomach. She smiles kindly, walking towards Sybil.

"Yes, Milady?"

"I will most likely be a little late to get ready for luncheon today."

"Very well, Milady. I'll get everything ready so there will be plenty of time to change."

Sybil hesitates, wondering for a moment if she should give a reason, if she was not being a nuisance.

"It's only... With Mr Branson leaving, I felt it right to wish him all the best for the future," she finally says, eyes focusses on the collar of Anna's uniform instead of her eyes. She has always wondered how uncomfortable those dresses must be, until her own uniform has proved her theory right.

"Milady," Anna says cautiously, and from the slightly frightened tone of her voice, Sybil knows something more is wrong in the world. She looks up, seeing the sadness stretch across Anna's face like a layer of fog. "Mr Branson has just fetched Mr Pratt a few minutes ago to take him to the station."

For a second, it flashes in front of Sybil's inner eye so brightly, so violently, that she can barely catch her breath. _You will never see him again._

"Milady!" Anna calls after her with a worried voice as Sybil turns on her heels and rushes down the main staircase, feeling her stomach flip as she takes steps into thin air.

"Sybil, what on Earth is the matter?" Edith asks rather harshly as Sybil pushes past her and Mary, just leaving the dining room as their youngest sister rushes past in a hurry towards the front door.

No one stops the hurried clicking of her heels against the stone floor as she pushes open the heavy front door and rushes out into the cool morning light, only a handful of light grey clouds scattered across the blue sky.

It feels as if merciless fingers form a strong fist around her heart when she sees the motor disappear down the gravel path, and realization sinks in like ink into paper. That everything is final now, that she will truly never see him again, never speak to him again.

**.**

**.**

She can hear Mary and Edith's footsteps approaching quietly, and when they come to a gentle halt next to her, her eyelids finally fall shut, unable to bear the image of the now deserted path.

"I thought you did not like him that way?" Mary's voice is quiet, tired, but concerned.

"That does not mean he meant nothing to me, at all." It is a whisper, something that should not be spoken out loud but needs to be lifted off her heart, if only for a few moments.

"Oh, darling," Mary sighs, reaching out to rest her hand on Sybil's shoulder. She gives her such a gentle squeeze that Sybil feels reminded of the times their mother had taken her into her arms as a child. Still, she knows, just as well as Mary and Edith, who, as much surprise as there is evident on her face at this revelation, seem to mourn her loss and understand that this is not something that is going to be better in the morning.

"I did not get to say goodbye."


	4. part four

**four.**

_Oh, my darling make it go, make it go away_

A week passes, then two. It all seems so trivial, and Sybil works longer shifts than ever before, is up on her feet every hour of her waking day, praying that only sleep will come a little easier each night.

Still, there is no permanent escape, no place to hide, no corner to sneak into, no work to be done, no atonement to be demanded.

She is sitting at the dinner table motionlessly, merely a shadow, staring ahead into nothingness.

"So, Sybil," Aunt Rosamund's voice sounds persistent from the other end of the table, and it is solely for her presence that Sybil has bothered with attending dinner at all instead of working a late shift.

The mere thought of having to discuss recent developments with her aunt frightens her, but her mother and father's reaction at her refusing to attend a family dinner will be far graver, she tells herself.

"When will I meet your fiancé?"

The word lasts heavily on Sybil's shoulders, and she takes a deep breath before turning to face her aunt, melting out of her immobility.

She notices Mary who watches her with a careful glance, both bitter and cautious.

"He is in London, visiting his parents. His mother is quite ill, so they never had the chance to visit him here."

Trying hard to keep a polite smile on her face, she can see her aunt's curiosity winning over.

"And what exactly is it his father is doing?" Rosamund asks, taking a small sip of wine. In that moment, even this simple gesture is enough for the fragile mask that Sybil holds, to crumble.

"I wonder why you're asking, at all. I'm sure you already know all about him and whatever dark secret there might be to discover."

She regrets the words the second they are spoken. However, the guilt she feels is small. These days, she is regretting too many words she has said that she wishes to take back, and too many words she never had the courage to allow to be spoken.

"Sybil!" her mother says harshly, setting down her wine glass with much more force than necessary, "What ever has gotten into you?"

Truly, she has not meant for the words to be as hard and spiteful as they have passed her lips, but deep down she knows that it is really how she feels.

"I am terribly sorry," she quickly apologizes, avoiding Mary's glance now, knowing exactly that she understands what has just happened, "I have rather a headache."

**.**

**.**

"I'd say as soon as the war is over. It is only a matter of weeks now, and if we start planning everything, we should find a convenient date rather quickly, don't you think?"

Sybil nods, smiling chastely at Vincent. However, it is her mother who answers in her stead, and Sybil feels so guilty when she sees the clear disappointment in Vincent's eyes.

"I am quite sure we can get it all arranged. Sybil, darling, we could drive into Ripon next week for some dress fittings. It's best to start as early as possible on that particular matter," her mother says with so much more enthusiasm than Sybil has seen on her face since that fateful day so many years ago, when she slipped in her bathroom and the world shifted.

"That would be lovely, Mama. Maybe Mary and Edith could join us, as well," Sybil says in an effort to sound as excited about her own wedding as everybody else appears to be.

_Lovely._

Vincent is lovely to her. She never gets to speak about the things that rest so heavily on her mind, but nevertheless, she knows he is a good man.

He looks at her with such awe, even now as her mother asks him about his parents and how well his mother is to travel for the wedding.

Glancing down at the heavy, red rug, she hopes that maybe one day, she will find it in herself to respond to the awe in his eyes equally, with all her heart.

It is a faint hope, but now that every conversation seems to include flowers and guest list and frocks, what else remains?

**.**

**.**

The war ends, harsh November winds rushing past Sybil's window at night as she lays awake, waiting for all the sorrow to pass along with it.

Soldiers return home, some healed, others scarred deeply until the end of their days. As Sybil bids them farewell, she comes to see that everyone carries their own scars in some way. Their very own stories and tragedies.

It feels as if centuries have passed since that golden summer day when the world had changed forever, and now time seems to fly like some invisible restraint has been loosened.

"You look beautiful, darling," Mary says with a loving smile, running her fingertips over the duvet on Sybil's bed.

Sybil can see her in the mirror, and she responds faintly, trying hard to control her breaths as her own reflection causes the blood in her veins to freeze. Maybe Mary is right, maybe she does look beautiful, her dark hair against the white of her dress, the soft lace surrounding her face.

Anna carefully adjusts the earrings her mother has given her with tear-glossed eyes and a smile on her face only a mother could spare.

Last night, Sybil found no sleep. Instead, in a sudden wave of melancholia, she sat down on the edge of her bed with the bright blue pantaloons in her hands, an old memorabilia hidden in the depths of her closet.

She has not worn them again since that day in spring, when nothing had been more exciting than a new frock. Until _he_ came along, bursting into her life like the bright turquoise with pamphlets and the key to a whole new horizon of thoughts.

Smoothing her palm down the lacy ridges of her wedding dress, Sybil tries hard to hold on to what little of the young girl she used to be still remains inside of her.

**.**

**.**

There is a knock on the door, and frightfully suddenly, Sybil's imagination is rushing down unfamiliar paths that lead into the darkness. A path that consists of blue eyes and cars parked in a rush in front of the house, white dress floating in the wind, trains leading into freedom.

When her grandmother enters the room, she feels like a child, almost afraid to be told off for her foolish mind.

"Could you give us a minute, please?"

Mary and Edith cast Sybil another pair of encouraging smiles as they step past their grandmother to leave the room, and Anna secures the second earring before rushing out of the door behind them.

"Sybil, dear, you look lovely."

Violet smiles gently, her gloved hand cupping her youngest grandchild's face.

"Thank you, Granny."

"But you look awfully cheerless."

Her grandmother's ability for directness should not surprise Sybil any more, but as she stands there in the heavy dress, the lace of the veil itchy against her skin, she finds herself defeated.

"I am just nervous, Granny," she attempts to say with as much honesty as she can muster, but as so many things lately, it fails.

"Sybil, dear, do trust me, I know the difference between nervousness and sadness and you certainly look more like woman in mourning than a bride," Violet says sharply, "Are you sure about all this?"

"Oh dear, has aunt Rosamund really uncovered some horrid secret, or is there another reason for this inquisition, Granny?" Sybil answers, knowing no way out other than playing her grandmother's game. Her voice is weak, though, quiet, and in no way emphasizing her words.

"She has not."

Their eyes meet, and when her eyes fill with tears, Sybil knows her act of secrecy is in vain.

"I have made my choice," she whispers hoarsely, standing as tall as she can, maybe, or most certainly, to make herself believe she is strong enough for the consequences of her decision.

"That you have, my dear. That you have."

Somehow, Sybil finds herself in her grandmother's arms, muffling a single desperate sob against the thick and itchy fabric of her dress. Only for a second she breaks down, and when Mary returns to fetch them, Sybil feels like looking at a strange and twisted reflection of herself.

**.**

**.**

The delicate ring sliding onto her finger feels like an icy chain, curling around her for all of time.

**.**

**.**

Sybil's heart beats violently in her chest, her entire body tense, breath coming in shallows heaps that repeatedly get stuck in her throat.

Her trembling fingertips run along the soft fabric of the duvet, tracing invisible lines only to find some distraction.

"Are you quite alright?" Her husband's voice is soft – _husband_; she shivers even more at the thought. Casting him a fluttery reassuring smile, Sybil nods.

"Of course. It was a long and exiting day," she says with a steady voice, feeling herself fill up with anxiety and fear.

They fall back into silence, and it is so uncomfortable and filled with unfamiliarity that Sybil can feel it suffocating her.

"If you are exhausted, we could always...," Vincent begins quietly, and Sybil can see the unease in the way he starts fidgeting around next to her, "Wait until tomorrow night. One night won't throw the Earth off its track, will it?"

Guilt creeps into Sybil's every fibre, but somehow, the trembling in her body calms down. Everything is so wrong in the world, so terribly wrong, and she wishes nothing more than for this to be a bad dream. She does not love Vincent, but looking into his eyes, she can see his love for her.

She feels loved. Not as deeply and passionately as she has once before, although she only now allows herself to really feel how much _he_ has loved her, but loved nonetheless. She tries not to let the sadness wash over her, desperate to hold onto the sensation of calm that spreads through her.

"I'm perfectly fine, darling," she says quietly, reaching out her arm across the duvet, allowing him to take her hand in his.

**.**

**.**

The sun is only beginning to rise, casting a dim glow into the room as Sybil carefully pulls the soft curtain to the side. The world outside is still asleep, enveloped in a calm serenity.

Sybil takes a few deep breaths, longing to open the window to let the freshness of dawn flood the room, but the steady breathing behind her reminds as much of the fact that she is now sharing a bedroom as the warm hand on her shoulder has done when she awoke from a restless sleep.

Her nightdress floats around her skin as she takes a step closer to the window, pulling the curtains just a little bit further apart.

Realization that she is a married woman, someone's wife, has set in abruptly yesterday, but in the aftermath, she feels numb and cold, her mind taking her by the hand, leading down the path she fears so dreadfully much.

All she wonders about in this moment is him. Where he is, from what window he can see the sun rise, from underneath which sheets he climbs, where he will be going, how he is feeling.

She wishes for a chance to redeem the lies she has uttered in his presence, for one last glimpse of him, for the opportunity to only hint that she feels so much love for him that her heart threatens to burst.

All she can do is hope. Hope that he is finding his place in the world, that somewhere out there, he wakes from a deep sleep and a good dream.

She can hear the sound of ruffling sheets coming from the bed behind her, but she does not turn, does not react in any way until she can feel a warm hand resting softly on her upper arm.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Vincent whispers, voice still hoarse from sleep. Sybil turns her head far enough to smile at her husband, feeling oddly relieved at the sight of his tousled hair and slightly swollen eyes.

He seems afraid to touch her, his palm so lightly against her arm she can barely feel it at all. Maybe she seems fragile, maybe this is normal (but how differently she has imagined it), and maybe he can see she is not here, not really.

The sun begins to rise more radiantly now, and when the light floods through the curtains, Sybil presses her lips softly against her husband's cheek. An act of duty, of manners, a charade, maybe even a tentative attempt to pretend to herself that she indeed wants to.

"Good morning."


	5. part five

**five.**

_Give me these moments back, give them back to me_

Her mother-in-law passes away during the summer, and Sybil finds herself wrapped in black, mourning a woman she has barely known, consoling the man she shares a bed, a house, a life with, but knows so very little about.

Sunny days pass in a blur, her thoughts wandering along as roaming the pavements becomes the only way to pass the endless hours of the days.

It all feels like an exaggeration of her adolescence, back before a certain person opened doors and before the war swept over the world like a monsoon of horror and change. It is all frocks and tea and dinner, and nothing else in between, nothing that could mute the thoughts in her mind.

When Mary and Sir Richard get married in autumn, Sybil is almost grateful. No matter how statuesque her sister appears, how cold and frozen her apparel has become, it all offers a few days of distraction.

Sybil loathes herself for it. For the faint flicker of relief she feels in the wake of her sister's final doom. Yet, there is not much else left. Nothing but books she has to read in secret, and streets she roams by herself.

They spend the holidays with Vincent's family, and no matter how welcoming everyone is, no matter how hard Sybil tries to smile and be happy, she knows she does not belong among them.

Loneliness is eating her up from the inside, and on Christmas day, she can not stop herself from excusing herself for a few minutes and rushing into Vincent's study.

Harris, the new butler after Carson left to follow Mary to Haxby and her new life as Sir Richard's wife, picks up the phone with a monotone words. It only takes a few minutes until Sybil, leaning against the heavy wooden desk to support herself, hears her mother's voice from the other end of the line, creaking and hoarse.

"Sybil, darling?"

"Mama."

"Is everything quite alright?"

"I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas."

"But you called already this morning, my darling."

Both women are quiet for a few seconds. Sybil can feel herself starting to tremble, a single tear escaping her eyes, which are shut so tightly her head begins to ache.

All struggle against it is in vain, and eventually she can not hold back the desperate sob that sounds so breathless and full of despair.

"Oh, my darling," her mother whispers softly, and for a moment, the sound is enough to calm Sybil. "I still remember my first Christmas away from home after I married your father. It will all be get better, darling, I promise."

Sybil nods to herself, feeling her tears run over her slightly parted lips. The salty taste repulses her, the essence of her sadness bitter poison.

**.**

**.**

When Sybil and Vincent – more or less Vincent himself, holding Sybil's hand carefully in his own - announce on New Year's Eve that they are buying a new house for themselves, Sybil can see the meticulously concealed disappointment in every pair of eyes that they have no different news to announce.

Her hand absent-mindedly wanders across the deep blue silk across her stomach, and she feels much more like a disappointment than she does every single morning that she wakes up next to Vincent.

Every day he presses a chaste kiss on her lips, whispers _good morning_, voice always hoarse from sleep, and squeezes her hand for a brief second.

They never speak of it, not now that 1920 is only a few ticks of the clock away, not ever. Sybil is sure Vincent is just as disappointed as every member of his family, but he is patient. He loves her so much that it hurts her to look him in the eye.

"Happy new year, sweetheart," he whispers as the clock strikes twelve, marking the beginning of another year so terribly uncertain. A soft kiss on her forehead, and Sybil holds on to his hand, telling herself to smile.

**.**

**.**

The new house, as much of a cage as it may be, becomes Sybil's only escape from the boredom that accompanies her life.

She drowns herself in colours and fabrics, in lamps and curtains, rugs and coffee tables.

As Springs announces itself with soft breezes of warm air and the first splotches of colour all over the city like a paintbrush splashed over a blank canvas, Sybil persuades Vincent in a week-long slow debate, to hire Anna as housemaid.

She can not bring herself to fire Muriel, who has been her lady's maid for the past months. The young woman, not much older than Sybil herself, is dull and quiet, a little clumsy, but loyal and sweet.

But when Mary calls and informs Sybil that Mr Bates has been hanged – an innocent man, she is sure of it – she feels compelled to help Anna. The thought of her, the widow of a man sentences to death for murder, wandering around looking for employment, seems too cruel to Sybil.

Vincent worries about the hushed words it might bring upon them, but eventually gives in. Sybil knows she is taking advantage of his desire to make her happy, but only this once, she knows it is for a good cause.

With Anna living under the same roof, she feels more comfortable, safer knowing that someone else shares knowledge of her secret.

She thinks one night, laying awake with her hair damp against her temple, that maybe sad souls find their way to each other.

Only not always. Sometimes there are no ways, when all the bridges have burned down to the ground.

**.**

**.**

With trembling fingers, Sybil puts down the newspaper, trying hard to swallow the lump that is forming in her dry throat.

It is one of the rare crisp and bright days of this summer, and the window of their dining room is wide open, giving entrance to a soft breeze and the sound of cars rattling down the street in the early hours of morning.

Every morning she spends in the relatively small, cosy, blue dining room, enjoying Vincent's company much more than the solitude of a tray in her bedroom. Today, however, she wishes for a moment by herself.

There is no denying the fact that her eyes always scan for news about the troubles in Ireland before anything else. So often she longs for a different source of information, for something that shows the second side of the conflict.

It never leaves her untouched, the news of fires and deaths and uprisings. Every single time her chest contracts in pain underneath her corset, and her mind replaces the faceless names in the small print of the newspaper with the one name she now wishes so desperately to be her own.

"Is everything alright, sweetheart? You look very pale this morning."

Vincent sounds concerned and hesitant, and Sybil wonders how long he has watched her before the ability to keep words unspoken has left him. It is always this way. He watches and observes, but chooses to remain silent, to let her figure out her mind on her own.

Why the assassination of a British Colonel would drain the colour out of her cheeks is beyond her capacity of embellishments, so Sybil reaches for her cup of tea instead.

"I was having trouble falling asleep last night again, that is all."

It is not a complete lie, and it comforts Sybil. There are too many truths she can not speak out, too many small bits of information she has to make up every day of her life, that a simple word of truth becomes a rarity.

"Maybe you should talk to the doctor about it," Vincent suggests, folding his own newspaper and reaching for the handkerchief on his lap, "You seem to have quite a bit of trouble sleeping lately."

"I suppose. I will ask him over on Friday."

"I will be late tonight, so I'm afraid you will have to eat dinner by yourself. I'm terribly sorry," he continues as he rises from his chair, gently kissing Sybil's lips as she nods.

It is a rare occasion that she eats by herself or falls asleep on her own, and she has not quite made up her mind if she finds it liberating or yet another drop of sadness.

**.**

**.**

The world outside is very slowly starting to tint in red and orange, more like the colour of a setting sun. As the train rushes through the countryside at a steady pace, Sybil leans her head against the window, head pulsating with the effort of grasping the abundance of colour outside.

Autumn has always seemed cruel to her. It is as if the whole worlds explodes in a flash of life and colour before everything dies and disappears, leafs fall and snow covers the ground.

Her restless fingers fumble with the blue flower attached to her hat, and her right foot taps against the floor in a mindless rhythm.

Vincent is her complete opposite, reading his newspaper. He has not moved an inch since they left King's Cross, and Sybil eyes him with envy.

If only her mind would let her rest.

**.**

**.**

A strong breeze pushes Sybil's rather unwilling feet across the platform, Vincent's hand on the small of her back gently steering her towards the gates.

From afar and amongst the crowd, she can make out the dark green of a chauffeur's uniform next to the heavy gates, crouched over some sort of paper, and for a moment, Sybil fights to stop herself from chuckling at the thought that only Branson would have the impropriety to read a pamphlet during his working hours.

However, as they come to a stop in front of the man and he looks up, every bone in Sybil's body is stunned in place.

"Br- Mr Branson?" she stutters, only a thin thread of self-control reminding her of formalities and the sound of her voice.

"Milady," he says politely, and with a curt nod, quickly stuffing the pamphlet into his pocket, "Mr Hargrave."

He is about to step past them to collect their luggage, when the words burst out of her mouth. Only a fragment of what she wants to say – _it was all a lie, forgive me, take me with you, I love you_ – but she can not stop herself.

"I thought you went back to Ireland, Mr Branson."

He stops to look at her, and when their eyes meet, Sybil can see what she broke, out in the open, so obvious to see.

"Only for a while, Milady."

**.**

**.**

"Darling, are you alright? You don't look very well," Vincent asks softly taking Sybil's hand that has been resting against the cool leather of the back-seat.

She turns to face him, a reassuring smile on her lips.

"I'm fine."

"You were awake again last night, weren't you? I heard you in the Sitting Room."

"Doctor Brooks told me to take walks around the house and sit at the window to get some fresh air."

"You should sit in the guest bedroom instead, it gets so draughty in the Sitting Room. I don't want you to catch a cold."

A bump in the road causes Sybil to involuntarily clutch Vincent's hand a bit more firmly, and he looks at her, eyes widened slightly in surprise, before she can see herself slipping out of his focus as he stares out of the window.

"You always seem to get even less sleep after these charity meetings on Thursdays. That woman is no good for you, darling," Vincent says quietly, but Sybil recognizes the tone in his voice. He is annoyed and worried, in his very own way concerned.

"You should give her a chance," Sybil answers, trying hard to form words and focus on her husband when her eyes keep flickering towards the front seat, and her mind screams question that will find no answer now, "She might be a little... exhausting, but she is terribly nice."

"Very well," Vincent says plainly, and Sybil notices his own eyes flickering towards the front, clearly not willing to take the topic any further at the moment, "I just wish you would find something else do on that day, and not surround yourself with people who tire you out so much."

"Don't worry," she reassures him, relief flooding through her as she realizes they are slowly approaching the big house.

**.**

**.**

While everyone is rushing about to unpack, Sybil sees her only chance and tugs Mary between two pillars in the hall, eyes cautious of everyone who might be passing by.

"What on Earth is the matter, Sybil?" Mary asks sternly, shaking her sister's hand off her arm.

"You knew, didn't you?" Sybil asks in a hushed voice, her fingers enclosing her own wrist only to hold on to _something_, feeling her own pulse race underneath her skin.

"Know what?"

She wonders for a moment if Mary is really this oblivious, but the look of despair in her eyes seems to be enough for her oldest sister to understand. Mary's face softens, and she sighs.

"Why did you not tell me he was back?"

"I did not see the point, Sybil" Mary whispers, leaning in a bit closer, "What difference does it make now?"

Sybil's gaze drops to the ground, ancient stone against her blue shoes.

"I thought about writing you when he showed up again, I honestly did," Mary continues quietly, resting her hand tentatively on Sybil's shoulder, "But... Oh, Sybil, what does it matter now?"

"It doesn't, of course," Sybil says sharply, stepping out of her sister's reach and walking swiftly towards her room.

**.**

**.**

"Won't Edmund be joining us for dinner, Mama?" Sybil asks as she follows her mother into the dimly-lit drawing room.

Everyone is scattered around the room, and Vincent makes his way over to her as she enters along wit her mother and sisters.

"You look beautiful, darling," he whispers and chastely kisses her cheek, and Sybil knows it is his apology for his comments earlier on in the car. She does not dare thinking that thought any further, trying hard to keep her mind in the here and now rather than letting it wander.

So, instead, she smiles dutifully and brushes her gloved hands over her olive-coloured dress, before sinking down onto the sofa next to her grandmother.

"No, his Grace will not honour us with his presence tonight," Mary answers in their mother's stead, her body tall and strong next to Richard by the fireplace.

"Mary, there is no need to be quite so spiteful," Cora says harshly, fidgeting with her glove.

"Are things really this bad?" Sybil asks, looking into many pairs of uncomfortable looking eyes.

"Things aren't going too well," her father answers curtly, impatiently eyeing the door.

"That, Robert, is is a charade you play so well I wonder why you never went on stage."

"I see no reason to talk well of someone who parades around the village, waiting for Papa to fall ill or be trampled to death by the horses," Mary continues, the same sort of venom spiking her voice that Sybil knows is born out of despair.

"Surely he doesn't-," Sybil begins, watching desperately how her family tears apart at the seams, before Mary interrupts her.

"He wants to move back to London, because, and I am quoting him now, he does not think it is necessary for him to be around here for now."

"He did not say that?"

"Oh, let me tell you, he did."

Sybil sees the sadness in her mother's eyes, the resistance in her grandmother's, the defencelessness in her father's, and for a moment, the Titanic echoes in her mind, the hundreds of people freezing to death in the merciless grasp of the icy water. She does not want to believe that her entire family has gone down with the ship - _unsinkable, strong. _

Still, it feels like it in this moment, when the routine takes over to cover the crumbling from within. She wonders how her family's story would have been told had Matthew survived the war. In the heat of the fire, she likes to believe she would have been strong enough to let her heart make the decision for her. Somehow, now, it seems to be disabled from her body, resting restlessly outside the stone walls, in a cottage she has never set foot in.


	6. part six

**six.**

_All the things that you needed from me, all the things that you wanted for me_

The taste of the wine is bitter on Sybil's tongue, and she feels it burning down her throat like a fire she can not control.

When Richard pushes back his chair to stand, towering over the table in the supercilious, intimidating way that Sybil always connected with him, she can feel everything inside her tingling with anxiety. Somehow, she knows what is coming, and when he does announce that he and Mary are expecting their first child, and reaches out to hold Mary's hand, everything blurs.

There is her mother's excited gasp, her father's reluctant handshake, Edith's forces smile, Granny's surprisingly moved comment, and by the time Sybil leaves her chair to hug her eldest sister, she can see Vincent congratulating Richard from the corner of her eye.

"I'm so happy for you," she says quietly, and when her eyes meet Mary's, both women understand whose wishes have come true, and whose have been shattered.

**.**

**.**

"Wonderful news, isn't it?" Vincent asks as he slips into bed beside her, propping his pillow up against the headboard.

"Wonderful," Sybil replies quietly as she fidgets with the ribbon holding together her braid. She does not find the strength to look at her husband, even in the dim light of the lamp on his bedside table.

The thick silence between them seems to stretch on forever, like a never ending road along the coast.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispers, looking down at the ring that circles her finger so tightly, and bounds her to this hour like a vice.

"Don't apologise, darling."

Some ruffling of the heavy duvet, and his lips press gently against her cheek, his forehead resting against her temple.

"Don't apologise."

**.**

**.**

She hears the ruffling of the sheets, yet she continues to sit completely still, arms wrapped around herself.

The world outside is tinted in black, the wide expands of the estate almost unrecognisable. Earlier on, she has seen a few scattered stars across the night sky, but now the clouds have taken even those away.

Slow steps in the dark, no words spoken, and Sybil feels a blanket being wrapped around her shoulders.

"One of these days you really are going to catch a cold," Vincent says ever so quietly, his voice thick with sleep as he kneels down beside her.

"Did I wake you?"

"I don't think so, no."

His hands reaches out towards hers, and Sybil hopes the faint moonlight does not reflect the tear tracks on her cheeks.

"You seemed rather surprised to see the chauffeur today," Vincent says calmly, and Sybil knows immediately that he is trying to keep up a light conversation after the choked apologies in the dim light earlier.

Her eyes, burning from the salty tears and cool breeze, fall shut for a moment. If only he knew.

"Well, he worked here for six years, and returned to Ireland around the time of our engagement," she replies quickly, eager to fall back into silence. It is something that she notices more and more. The wish for silence, the longing to speak leaving her piece by piece. "You don't really expect servants to return once they have handed in their notice, do you?"

"I suppose not. It's no wonder, though, with all that trouble in Ireland."

She nods, suddenly feeling terribly cold and utterly relieved at the same time. This thought has not crossed her mind yet, too occupied with the confusion of seeing Tom again so suddenly, her family's slow decay and Mary's announcement.

He is alive. He is here. He is safe.

When they slip back under the covers, Vincent kisses her lips softly, but Sybil turns away from him quickly, keeping a strong hold on his hand to minimize the rejection that constantly seems to linger between them.

"Do you think it has something to do with the sleep problems?" Vincent whispers, squeezing her hand.

She knows what he is talking about. Never do they really call it by a name, never say out loud or question with words why they are still only two, but the unspoken words linger between every line and syllable that is spoken.

"I don't know. Maybe."

**.**

**.**

"Why are you back?"

He looks up from the newspaper in his hand. Of course he has heard the clicking of heels announcing her arrival. Heard it minutes before. But only now that he hears her voice, looks up to see her standing in the garage door once more does he fully understand she is really here.

That she has not been a dream.

"Why do you ask?"

There is no need for pretences in the confines of this old place of comfort and honesty between them. She steps inside and there are no class divides. They talk as equals.

"Because I want to know," she states simply, defiantly, coming to a halt in front of him, "Because you once told me you would not always be a chauffeur. Because you also told me you only stayed at Downton to wait for my answer. And when I gave it you left the same minute. So, why did you come back?"

Something in her voice, controlled and steady, is at unease and reminds him sadly of the shadow of a young woman who could go on and on about women and the vote.

For a few moments, he contemplates if he should lie. Come up with the same shallow excuses he has made up when he applied for his old job a few months ago. Stories that Mr Carson believes, O'Brien likes to comment on and Mrs Hughes sees for exactly what they are.

Sybil appears upset by his silence, anger transforming her face into a mere mask of the collected and tired woman he has seen in the car. Somehow, his presence seem to upset and enrage her, but the wonderment in her eyes is what finally makes him decide to tell her the truth. He always has, and he knows he always will.

"Because," he begins, but suddenly her face softens just a little, so lightly he can barely see the change, and his chest swells with all the familiar pain, "I went back to Ireland and I enjoyed the job at the paper. It was everything I thought it would be. Only... it wasn't."

Taking a small step forward, they are standing closer than anywhere appropriate. Still, he needs her to see, to understand, that nothing has changed for him.

"Because nothing there – back _home_ – even indicated that you even existed," he confesses, voice bitter with the memories of those days when he looked out of the window into the rain clouds, wondering if the woman with the dark hair and the bright smile really existed, "And I couldn't bear living a life in which you only exist in my imagination. So, I came back here. Because here, everywhere I go and every little thing I see holds memories of you. And for at least a little while, I want to remember you. I'm not quite ready to let go."

Her expression changes into a flicker of guilt. That is the last thing he wants her to feel, and for a single moment he regrets being honest. Much rather will he live with her memories fading, than knowing she believes she ruined his life.

"Don't worry," he quickly adds, voice more quiet, less determined, "I won't stay forever. But for now, I need to hold on to all that I have of you. And that is memories."

They stand there, facing each other, for all the time in the world it seems. Her eyes look clouded, the impact of his words releasing a flood of emotions on her face.

Her lips seem to quiver for a moment, and she drops her gaze towards the floor.

"I should be going back. Could you take Mary and me into Ripon tomorrow after breakfast?"

"Of course."

Their eyes only meet briefly as she turns to leave, kneading her hands nervously.

"Are you happy?"

His words are blunt, and he is aware of that, especially when he sees her back straighten as she stops in her tracks.

"I don't believe that is any of your concern," she answers with a cool voice, not bothering to turn around to look at him. It seems formal now, the way she would politely tell him to not take the topic any further, or there would be consequences.

He knows there will never be any. This distinct amount of power he has, the secret they share, the secret that never really had the chance to fully blossom into one, makes him feel oddly vulnerable. Yes, she will never give him away, because that means exposing all the truths she has so successfully covered up. He should be thankful for that. But it also emphasizes that it is all lost.

"How was my reasoning to be here any of your concern, Milady?" he asks, slipping into the overly polite tone of his voice usually reserved for Lady Mary, with whom not a day goes by without a suspicious glance.

"Of course I am happy. Very. Good day."

With these words, she disappears. Once more.

**.**

**.**

She feels like she is leaving a trail of lies behind her as she walks back towards the house she spent her childhood in.

For only a few breathless moments, she wonders if she could erase her steps by walking back, by telling the truth.

She never tries.


	7. part seven

**seven.**

_All the things I should've said that I never said_

Luncheon stretches on like a grey Sunday afternoon in winter with nothing to do and nothing to distract. Endless, repetitive discussions and chats about the baby, about a nursery, about names and money and her mother's anecdotes of how small but strong Mary has been when she was born.

It does not matter that every person around the table, including Mary, despises Richard Carlisle, that everybody knows Mary is now permanently and for the rest of her days binding herself to this fate. No. Instead, everyone seems to hold on to the small string of light that a son or daughter, a grandchild, a niece or nephew will bring into this crumbling world.

Sybil recalls how her eyes have flickered from the front seat of the car to Mary sitting next to her in the back yesterday on their way into Ripon.

Her lies, all the mess she has caused and left behind impersonated in Tom. Tom, who does not turn to look her in the eyes once. Who seems to hold on to the steering while much too tightly, who brushes her hand off his almost harshly as he helps her out of the car.

And Mary. The symbol of her family's ruin, the last chapter in a line of tragedy and duty, indifference and resignation. Almost constantly, her hands hover over her stomach, and Sybil cannot tell if the movement is born out of protectiveness or insecurity.

It is all threatening to burst out of her, contained in a tense coil inside of her. The wish to stand and shout the truth out into the world for everyone to hear. To tell Mary to run, run, run far away and leave this all behind, to raise this child in a better world, for herself to say goodbye and take the next ferry to Ireland, into the unknown.

Instead, she lets Vincent pull back her chair and rises, smoothing her skirt as she follows her family outside into the hallway, her mother and Mary ahead.

"Sybil, dear," her grandmother's voice suddenly interrupts the storm inside Sybil's mind, "Might I have a word?"

Waving a hand at Vincent to send him off with the others, Sybil turns towards her grandmother, who is watching her calmly, but with the strong determination she has seen many times before.

"Is everything quite alright, my dear? You looked as if your head was lost somewhere in an Italian alleyway rather than here."

Trying to answer with a smile, Sybil can feel her fingers begin to play with the belt around her waist.

"I am just a little tired, Granny."

"Listen, my dear. I know this is difficult and unpleasant for you. But don't let it all take over."

Violet's voice is more quiet than usual, her hand shortly reaching out for Sybil before falling back to her stick. Sybil can see the hint of a reassuring smile, but mostly, her grandmother looks stern and serious.

"I'm sure it will all turn out eventually," she answers, trying to find an answer for herself why she keeps telling every one and herself this, why Vincent wants to believe it so badly and she herself can not find the courage to do so.

"Let me tell you this," Violet continues, "There is nothing more cruel on the mind than undone deeds, my dear. Remember that."

Her eyes fixed on her grandmother's back as she determinedly walks towards the drawing room, Sybil, standing all alone on the big hall, realizes their conversation has never been about children. Once again, she wonders how much of her lies are so obvious for everyone else to read, like a sign by the side of the road or the big black headline of a newspaper.

**.**

**.**

She stands in the door of the garage that night, wearing a light blue dress. For a few seconds, Tom can barely see her standing there _right now_ in this very moment, but delves in memories of another time he has seen her in radiant light blue.

The thought alone, the memories of her proud smirk, of her family's shocked faces, hurts too much to cling onto.

"It's very late. Won't they wonder where you are?" he asks to distract himself, the same professional edge to his voice as the other day.

"I can't help that. I had to come."

Her voice is heavy with bitterness, and it is something he is so accustomed to hearing from Lady Mary, that he once again finds himself surprised at the reminder that they are, despite all differences, indeed sisters. However, it is not only the bitterness in which they are so alike in this moment. The spite in her voice is so much harsher than anything he is used to hearing from her.

"What for? Do you need the car tomorrow?"

Suddenly she is standing right in front of him, and her bare hand – why was she not wearing gloves and why is her palm so terribly soft and warm? - rests against his cheek.

The bitter-sweet memory of the last time this happened, of the time cool silk has brushed his skin, echoes through Tom's memory like the last, fading sounds of a painful shriek.

"I need to tell you something," she whispers hoarsely, looking him straight into the eyes, not a fleeting hint of hesitation or doubt detectable.

"Yes?"

"You always only told me the truth, and I have told you so many lies," she says quietly, and he can see the tears glistering in her eyes, "And I am so, _so_ sorry, Tom. So sorry."

A few moments of silence fall between them, and Tom feels her words sink in, the apology he never needed but has always hoped for.

"I know," he murmurs, daring to lean a little closer into her touch.

Sybil smiles faintly. He has always known, somehow.

"When I told you I didn't love you... that was a lie," she finally says, lips quivering as her strength seems to falter. He remembers that night so terribly clearly. It has not been much different from this. Just as wrong, just as close, just as agonizing. "I only told you all those things because I hoped that it would set you free. That you would want to leave and live your life. But it was never the truth. I never meant to break your heart, but you handed it to me and I had to, no matter how much I hurt myself by doing so."

With each word that rushes past her lips, she edges a bit closer towards him, finally breaking every last barrier, overcoming the last bit of distance until the tips of her shoes bump into his.

"Because I love you," she whispers with such a quiet and broken voice that he can barely understand her, "So much. I love you so very much, Tom. And this is the truth, right here. If only just this once, I needed you to know."

He can feel her breath dampening his skin, and she is so much closer than she has ever been, than anyone has been to him in such a long time. His heart threatens to burst as he takes it all in, the smoothness of her skin, the glistening in her eyes, the curve of her lashes, the sound of her breath, the fine strands of hair that have come loose.

Somewhere along the line, he feels anger boiling amongst the passion and adrenaline inside of him. Anger at both of their selfishness. Is there really any point in these confessions now? Do they change anything at all?

"I knew," he finally answers, resting his own hand on her cheek, marvelling that he gets to do this, if only this once. Her eyes flutter close, and it all feels like such a burden to carry, like such a light weight that overcomes him, as if the wind rushes across sunny fields, only to be numbed by a storm, "I told you I knew. I never believed otherwise, whatever you told me."

She nods, remembering the day when he had been the one to confess her feelings for him. When he had offered her a ticket away from all the chains and cages and restraints that she now cringes within each and every moment of her life.

"And I lied when I said I was happy," she whispers sadly, brushing her cheek against his calloused palm.

"I can see."

Her eyes open, and it is all the proof he needs.

"How?"

Taking a shuddering breath, he leans forward, feels her tremble as she anticipates him to close the last remaining distance. Instead, he rests his forehead against hers, lifting his free hand to rest against her other cheek, fingertips brushing gently across her skin.

"There was always so much fire in your eyes," he begins to explain, shivers running down his spine as he feels her every motion beneath his touch, "You were always on the verge of bursting into flames. Out into the world. And now it's gone. I can't see any of it any more. You look so... tired."

No more words are said, and before he sees the first tear spilling over and running down her pale cheek, her lips press softly against his. It is such a gentle, hesitant and chaste moment, that he forgets all the urgency, all the suppressed passion he feels for her, that usually threaten to burst out of him like a bullet out of a pistol.

She slowly moves her hand from his cheek around his neck, fingertips sinking into the smoothness of his hair, her free hand clutching his arm, holding herself against him as closely as possible.

It is all too much. The shiver that runs down his spine as her fingers shyly massage the nape of his neck, her breath against his lips, her body in his arms.

Sybil sighs as they part for a brief second, their eyes meeting. Tears shimmer in both of them, but all pain is forgotten when their lips meet again, finally with the fire and passion and eagerness they have been denied for so long.

* * *

A/N: I was quite excited about posting this part, because the garage scene was actually the first I wrote for this story, and this is my personal favorite part. Only two more left.


	8. part eight

**eight.**

_All the things we should've done that we never did_

Somehow, he does not quite remember how exactly, they end up on the cool concrete floor of the garage, him propped up against the wall, her wrapped up in his arms.

She is breathing steadily, and all worries Tom might have had about the cold or the dirt or the fact that she is a lady and sitting on the floor of a garage is not really something she does, disappear. It is all about her in this moment, about the sheer fact that it is him who gets to hold her in this moment, that he will cherish until the end of his days.

They exchange quiet words, hushed whispers, apologies and words that mean nothing to nobody. Tom begins to wonder why no one has sent out a search party yet, why no lanterns are bobbing up and down in the darkness of the grounds outside. The thought that no one seems to miss Sybil at this time of night stirs up the anger and sadness that he hides beneath a layer of respect and dignity.

"I think he knows," Sybil murmurs quietly, breaking the silence of the night that is wrapped around them as tightly as a cocoon.

"Knows what?" Tom asks, no need to specify whom they are talking about.

"That I am not...," she continues, and he can see that her eyes have fallen shut, long lashes against pale skin, "That my heart does not belong to him. And never will."

Tom pulls her a little closer to him, the breeze from outside much cooler than he thought, and he can feel goose bumps covering her skin beneath his fingers. It pains him to say the next words, to think the thought that is associated with them. To look the painful truth in the eye that this is all there will ever be, that she will leave again, that she is someone else's wife now.

"Do you really think it never will?"

"Not like this," she whispers, resting her hand on Tom's chest, feeling his heart beating softly beneath her touch.

Maybe, he thinks for a moment, he should feel guilty or sad for chaining her to his heart. But when she leans up to brush her lips against his cheek, he knows he never did it on purpose. That he would return her heart gladly if only she could be happy again.

"Is he good to you?" he asks, forehead leaning against the top of her head. The desire to talk about her husband – the man whose place he should have had – is small, but he simply must know if there is any chance for the carefree laughter to return to Sybil's lips that he remembers from those early days before the war. Back when their world had been much simpler than now.

"Yes," she answers quietly, but with a sense of tired determination, "He truly is, Tom. I don't want you to worry about me."

He is about to interrupt her, to tell her that he never does anything else, but she raises her hand slowly, and he lets his words die on his tongue.

"I never get to... speak my mind, really," Sybil continues wearily, "Not the way I used to with you. But I am glad he lets me speak at all, and in his mind, he is doing everything in his might to make me happy."

"But not in your mind."

"He is not you," she replies quietly, but the words sound so sincere as if she stated the most simple truth in the world, "I don't love him like I love you. He won't ever let me discuss with him the way we used to discuss the vote. Do you remember that?"

_pamphlets, stolen glances, crowds, laughs, her body in his arms, blood, despair, hope, secrets, blue_

"Of course. I'll never forget that."

"Sometimes I believe I'm nothing but a naïve fool. And always have been."

"Don't say that," Tom says rather harshly, shocked and pained by her confession."You are brave, and strong. I love you all the more for it."

"I just don't see why _he _loves me. Loving someone but knowing that person will never love you back, where is the point in that? I feel terrible for putting him in this position. It does not matter how hard he tries."

Again, like earlier, Tom is faced with the truth that she is not his, and that she, like him, should be allowed to find happiness elsewhere, if the world were a better place.

"Are you really sure about that?"

Sybil raises her head to look at him, eyes tired and cheeks flushed.

"I will come to love him. One day. When there is no more room in me to fight and scream. Maybe I will be happy then."

"I wish you knew how much I want to make you truly happy."

Tears are gathering in her eyes again as the hopelessness of his words lingers between them. She reaches out to wrap her hand around his shoulder. Their lips meet softly, and Tom's own fingers curl in the silky back of her dress, desperate to have her closer to him, as close as he possibly can.

"If only we could," Sybil whispers as they part, lips inches apart, her breath damp on his prickling skin, "Make each other happy. I broke your heart and for that I am sorry."

"I don't want you to be sorry, Sybil. I am certainly not."

Tom's voice breaks a little as he cups her cheek in his free hand, brushing away a stray tear with his thumb as her eyelids fall close.

"You love me back, and that is all I can ask for in this wretched world."

Words become unnecessary after this, silence wrapping them up once again. Their eyes never part, not for one moment.

"It will change, won't it?" Sybil asks, lost in thought, and Tom kisses her temple as she speaks, "Maybe when I'm old I will remember how the world used to be, and how you were the one to make me see what it could be. How much more to life there is."

**.**

**.**

Sybil quietly returns to her room as the night stretches on. It does not surprise her to find Vincent sitting on the edge of their bed, still tidily made, him still in his suit.

"I was worried," he says simply as she shuts the door, feeling the warmth of the crackling fire seep into her bones.

"I am sorry. I forgot the time."

Avoiding Vincent's gaze, Sybil crosses the room to sit on the familiar chair in front of the dressing table. Even in the dim light she can see how pale she looks, how red her eyes still shimmer from the weight of long withheld tears.

Her cold fingers fumble with her earrings as Vincent stands ups from the bed, taking off his jacket.

"There is something we need to talk about, Sybil."

"Really now? I am rather tired," Sybil asks hesitantly, the second earring dropping into her palm.

"Yes, now," Vincent answers determinedly, standing behind her, their eyes meeting in the framed mirror. Sybil remembers the days when she had looked into this mirror and saw a young girl, days when Anna fixed her hair, days when she herself adjusted her nurse's cap. Looking into the hurt face of her husband now, it all seems like a century ago.

"I want nothing more than for you to be happy, darling."

"But I am," Sybil reassures him as she pulls the pearl necklace over her head, fearing the direction this conversation is threatening to take.

"Don't lie to me," Vincent says harshly as soon as the words have left Sybil's lips, and when he takes hold of her shoulders to pull her around to face him, she sees more anger in his eyes than she has ever seen in them before, "Don't ever lie to me, do you understand?"

Sybil knows there is no reason for her to be afraid, and Vincent's hands almost instantly drop from her shoulders to rest gently on her forearms, but she can not erase the image of the raging anger and frustration in his eyes. She nods shortly, taking a shuddering intake of breath.

"I know you do not feel for me the way I do," Vincent continues, his voice softer, more like himself, "I can't seem to figure out why. There is nothing I can do, I know that and it pains me."

Sybil wonders of she made him like this. Angry, sad, frustrated. Is it entirely her fault, or is he simply another product of a generation that seems to have lost track in the world?

"Please don't say that."

The words slip past her lips before Sybil has time to think about them. Too long has the fear rested on her shoulders that she is destroying this caring person with so much love for her. To see the reality seems too much for tonight, nothing she can face in this hour.

The impact of her words almost instantly drains the room of all its warmth. Raising to his full height, Vincent lets go of her arms, broadening his shoulders.

"I can not make you love me, and I have no desire to do so. It isn't something I can ask of you. But loyalty is. You are my wife, Sybil."

His voice is almost cold. Deliberate, and Sybil knows when she is given an order.

"I am sorry if I am a disappointment to you," she says into the semi-darkness of the room, lost for words but unable to fight the urge to apologize.

Something in the sound of her voice seems to soften Vincent. He kneels down in front of her, taking her hands in his own.

"You could never be that. I don't understand you," he whispers, and Sybil wonders how much it costs him to say all this, "But I do not blame you for that. For any of it. I owe you so much. I owe you my life, and I have so much gratitude for you, I have no right not to forgive you."

"Is that why you married me? Because you are grateful?"

For some reason she can not grasp, the connection between their hopeless marriage and the memory of his blood coating her hands and apron as she watched the shrapnel being pulled out of his side infuriates her. It mingles two lives that could not be further apart, disgraces the one and gives no value to the other.

"I married you because I love you, Sybil. Because I want to spend the rest of my life with you. What I don't understand is why you married me."

Silence surrounds them as neither of them knows what to say. Too many things can not be said, must never come to light, yet fight to be revealed in the hours of darkness.

"I am so sorry. For everything," Sybil finally whispers weakly, resting her hand on Vincent's arm. He does not respond for a long time, the night dark and heavy around them. Finally, as the clock ticks away the time in a steady rhythm, he nods softly, wrapping his fingers around her hand again.

**.**

**.**

They are sitting on the back-seat of the Renault, Sybil's head resting against his chest. Her fingers are sprawled across his chest, feeling his heart beat steadily underneath her touch.

Almost as if in a dream, he kisses the top of her head, pulls her a little closer into his side. If it is only these fleeting moment they will get, both of them want to make the most of it.

Still, there is one question Tom has to ask, no matter how much he wishes he could simply stay silent in this moment for as long as possible.

"There is one thing, which I never understood and it keeps running through my mind."

"What is it?"

"Why did you marry him?

Sybil stiffens a little in his arms, the movement of her fingers halting, but she does not retreat.

"Please don't ask that," she whispers, resting her cheek on top of his heart now, arm wrapping around his chest.

"Why ever not?"

It takes a while for her to answer, quiet minutes that pass with gentle touches and calm breaths.

"Because... It makes me so terribly angry."

"Angry with whom?"

"Myself. Him. Everyone. Matthew even, some days."

He is sure this is the first time she has ever spoken about this to anyone, and, feeling her slip away into anger and despair, grasps her hand in his, their fingers intertwining so naturally, he can hear the bitter sweet sound of his breaking heart.

"But why did you do it?"

"Strange how it was always _you_ who knew all the answers," she says with a bitter chuckle echoing in the aftermath of her voice.

"Not this time. I could have understood if you had simply chosen not to marry me. If you had proven me wrong in my assumption that you felt the same for me as I do for you. But everything you gave up for it, I never understood what made you do it."

This time she does retreat, pulls out of their embrace slowly. But her hands stays firmly within his, and she is sitting so close, he can still feel her breath fanning across his skin.

"You once told me that the war was going to change the world. And it did. But when Matthew died... My world did not change," she whispers, and he remembers his proposal, remembers promises he made that he could never have kept, "It fell apart. It's all going to shatter in front of my eyes one day. My family. Everything I knew. It's ending, right this minute. And I could not be responsible for more destruction. Who am I to take what little hope there is left?"

"So you did it for them? To please them?" he asks, a suspicion he has made long ago, but never really believed. Sybil. Fiery Sybil. Then again, has it not always been her family that was most dearest to her?

"Not to _please_, exactly," she sighs, resting her head against his shoulder, "But with it all coming to an end... Tom, they find so much comfort in knowing me secure."

He hesitates, but he has to know. Has to know if all the sacrifices she has made, all the pain he has endured since then, have been worth it.

"Do you regret it? You must have known it would be like this."

She kisses his neck softly, and he can feel the silent, warm tears against his skin.

"Every day. I regret it every single moment of my life."

**.**

**.**

"What will you do?" Sybil asks wearily, hating the thought of Tom chained to this life, chained to fading memories of her.

"Hand in my notice soon," he answers more quietly than suits him, burying his hands in the pockets of his uniform, "I suppose I owe them some time to find a replacement, after running off last time. And then, I have a war to fight. A cause."

"Please be careful."

Sybil's voice threatens to break as she remembers newspaper headlines and her clenching heart over breakfast each morning. She could not bear for him to suffer such a fate.

"I'll try. And who knows. Maybe one day, when I am old and grey, and the world has changed, if even just a little bit, I'll remember an English lady who should be sitting by my side."

They never say goodbye. It seems redundant. Their lips part achingly, fingertips brushing over skin, memorizing the soft touch before time would alter it beyond recognition.

Tom watches her as she walks up towards the big house. Her steps are slow and minimal in the dark, his breath ragged, eyes prickling and throat aching.

He knows there is more to life than a broken heart, he does. But as he closes his eyes to shut out the world for a moment, the pain feels so all consuming he wonders why it is still beating at all.

But finally, letting go does not feel like betrayal to him any more.

* * *

_Only one more part left, and I am very anxious to hear what you all think._


	9. epilogue

**nine.**

_Give me that little kiss, give me your hand_

Autumn sunlight glitters on the surface of the Thames, and Sybil's fingers curl around the cool, iron bannister as she stares along.

The dull ache in her stomach still reminds her of the child – the son – she was not allowed to have. Many times over the last few days she has wondered if this is the punishment for spoken truths and forbidden touches, seemingly decades ago in the glow of last year's autumn.

But, no. She has decided that she has done nothing to be punished for, that the loss of her son was no one's fault, least of all her own, that it was not to be, just like her dead brother never got to see the world he could have been born into.

How much time has passed since that day before the war, when her own mother had suffered the same loss. Had that been her fault? Certainly not.

She has done the right thing, made the wrong choices. However, Sybil tells herself there is no reason for blame. Not any more.

**.**

**.**

Summers come and go in a fuzzy blur, and when she looks into the curious eyes of her daughter for the first time, Sybil finally realizes that even her restrained world still has horizons.

That she can fight a war of her own. Subtle, not as fiery as she thought once upon a time. Still, she still feels the anticipation of changing the world, of laying out better paths for her daughter.

Vincent's hand cradles their daughter's head gently, all dark hair and soft, pink skin. He kisses Sybil's forehead just as gently, murmurs _I love you_ against her skin, tears choking his voice, and for the first time, Sybil feels that maybe one day, she will want to say it back.

**.**

**.**

The day Mary replaces Edmund as heir, Sybil watches from her old room's window as her father walks around the green grass in front of the house, her daughter clinging to his hand, skipping alongside him.

As morbid as the future has turned out to be, as kind and hopeful does it promise to become.

With a smile on her lips and breathing in the fresh air streaming through the open window, Sybil hopes – _hopes_, not worries, not any more – that Tom has found equal kindness and promise across the sea.

It is only a small hope, more of a wish even. But Sybil remembers a sunny day when a small brush of hands had caused the world in her eyes to explode into a million opportunities.

One small step at a time.

* * *

_Note: I want to thank everyone who read this story and took the time to leave a review. The response to the story was so amazing, and a lot more positive than I originally thought. I'm terribly sorry for all the heartbreak, I really am. But I hope this epilogue, as short as it may be, gives some closure. _

_I'm actually quite sad to finish this story, but I am looking forward to hear what you all think about the ending._


End file.
